


Shattered

by Soraya (soraya2004), soraya2004



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-29
Updated: 2005-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soraya2004/pseuds/Soraya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/soraya2004/pseuds/soraya2004
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a bad day at work, Sara runs to Grissom seeking solace</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

Grissom could have died just hours ago.

That alone would have been enough to cut through her reservations, if she'd had any as she pushed open the door to his house. It was a horrible breach of his privacy. She remembered how he'd looked the last time she'd come over like this, unannounced and uninvited. He'd seemed so disappointed, as though his heart was breaking and she was somehow personally responsible. Only, this time, she hoped he might forgive her; at least, she felt he would understand.

She let the door swing shut then she leant back against it, staring into the space that didn't quite pass for a hallway. The house was dark and the living room empty, just as she'd prayed it would be; and when several minutes passed with no one coming to investigate, Sara heaved a sigh of relief. This was what she'd been craving all day. Some peace and quiet in a place where no one was there to watch her control shatter.

Because, a few hours ago, in an alley full of trash and rats, Grissom had almost died right in front of her. It was the only clear thought she'd had since the accident, and the image of it was as sharp in her mind as the moment it happened. What scared her the most was how powerless she'd felt. Even if she hadn't been paralysed with shock, she realised she wouldn't have made it to him in time; she wouldn't have been able to save him.

The thought of that made her hands shake; they were still shaking nearly five hours after the end of her shift. She rubbed them over her face, the back of her neck, her thighs, but still she couldn't get warm. This chill she felt ran far deeper than a mere shift in temperature, and it clung to her body, no matter how hard she rubbed, or blew, or scrubbed at it.

What she really needed was a drink, several of them, in fact. The urge was so strong that, if she closed her eyes for a second, she could almost feel the whiskey wetting her lips, and taste its rich flavour on her tongue, before that long soothing burn down her throat. And the more she thought about alcohol, the more she wanted that particular brand of oblivion. It was the only way she could truly relax. But, she'd given Grissom her word that she wouldn't solve her problems at the bottom of a bottle, and this was not the day to break that promise, even if that meant being haunted by flashes from that dirt-filled alley.

The little things stood out the most: the sudden speckling of dust on Grissom's jacket, followed by the screech of sound as the AC-unit came loose high above his head. She could still remember the horror of watching it fall only to land mere centimetres away from him. A few inches to the right and all that eccentricity and brilliance would have been gone. Dead. Lost forever. Only a stroke of pure luck and Warrick's speedy reflexes meant they weren't burying the crushed wreck of Grissom's body.

Sara let out a small laugh, but the sound was harsh and bitter, and the accompanying smile didn't reach her eyes. *There* was the proof that the universe had it in for her. Warrick had been the one to save Grissom, not her. Warrick had pulled him out of harm's way then shielded him, leaving her with a throat dry with fear and hands that refused to stop shaking. Still, she tried to look at the bright side. Grissom was alive, which meant that in spite of whatever mistakes she'd made with him, she still had a chance.

She pushed off the door and moved further into the house. Of all the places she knew, there was something so soothing about being in Grissom's home. The living room always smelt of spice and some scent she associated uniquely with Grissom; and in the silence, walking among the personal items he'd collected over the years, it was easy for her to tell herself that she was close to him. So much about him was hard to read. He hid behind his logic and his role as supervisor in a place where she couldn't reach him. But here, within these four walls, he couldn't hide who he was. For someone who knew how to look, the clues were everywhere, and Sara was well versed at observing Grissom.

She wandered around aimlessly, letting the tips of her fingers trail over the things that were dearest to him. A display case full of butterflies, a book on civil liberties, a jar of larvae, a set of golf clubson the surface, such a strange collection of objects, yet each one spoke to her about some facet of the man she loved. She picked out a five-iron, let her fingers curl gently around the handle, imagining that she could feel the warmth from his hands touching her through this object.

In reality, it was cold and pointless, because what she really wanted was to be able to touch him.

The golf club slipped through her fingers, back into the bag, and Sara turned away. Her hands were shaking, though now the emotions behind that were much closer to frustration than fear. She pressed the heels of both palms to her eyes, forcing the tears back before they could fall. She'd promised she wouldn't keep doing this to herself, or to him. In reality, she knew that in the next few months there would be many more moments like this where she wandered from room to room looking for something Grissom wouldn't give her.

By the time she reached the bedroom, she had herself back under control. The door was open, and the bright light streaming through the windows made it seem more inviting than the rest of the house. Nonetheless, Sara hovered outside, suddenly uncertain. Entering this particular room without permission seemed like the worst kind of betrayal, far, far worse than everything she'd done so far. It wasn't that she expected to find anything there; just, there were certain lines of intimacy Grissom never let people cross. While he seemed happy enough to invite the team to his house from time to time, not one of them, to her knowledge, had seen behind this door.

It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Sara laughed a little at the ridiculous idea of herself as a modern-day Goldilocks, who broke into her supervisor's home, searched through his things and slept in his bed. She was about to step inside the room when she saw him: Grissom, right there, on the bed she'd just been imagining.

Sara froze.

He was sitting in the middle of it, the long, pale lines of his back stiff with tension, and for a moment, she thought he'd seen her. His head was turned to one side, cocked in that familiar way, which said he was listening to something or evaluating some new piece of evidence. Then, she noticed the downward sweep of his eyelashes on his cheek. And the sight of him like that, with his eyes closed and his skin glowing in sunlight, nearly took her breath away.

All these years, and she'd never seen him so naked. He was beautiful to look at, more beautiful than she'd ever imagined, with his broad shoulders and pale skin and the way the line of his back curved gently into the swell of his ass. And now that she was finally here, she couldn't stop staring at him. The consequences of being caught, the embarrassment and the humiliation: none of that mattered weighed against the chance to see Grissom like this.

It took a moment for her to realize he was moving. Slowly, such a slow and subtle motion she'd missed it at first. But his movements were far more obvious now that she knew what to look for. It was there in the way his back arched, the way his hips rose and fell in a rhythm only he seemed to hear. A line of sweat ran down his spine, disappearing into the sheets that tangled at his hips, and when a dark-skinned hand suddenly drew those sheets back, Sara took an involuntary step back.

In all her fascination with Grissom, she hadn't noticed that he was not alone. The hand, large and long-fingered, was undeniably male, and something about the way it touched Grissom's skin with almost careless possessiveness made her uncomfortable. It was a lover's touch, one that was absolutely sure of its welcome; and when Grissom did nothing to shake it off, Sara's heart went cold.

It hurt more than she could ever have imagined to watch those blunt-tipped fingers splay across his lower back, while another dark hand cupped his waist, steadying him. She couldn't help noticing that Grissom's movements were cautious, as though this was new to him. He arched again, eyelashes fluttering as he pressed back into those hands. And they held him still while the man beneath him lifted and circled his own hips, grinding their bodies together in a way that made Grissom shiver and groan out loud.

The sound was low and deep, shocking in its intensity. It raised goosebumps on her skin. She'd never heard anything like that from Grissom before, never heard him sound so sexual. And that was the only possible explanation. The sound he'd made was pure sex, and her mind slowly caught up with what her eyes were telling her.

Grissom was naked in bed with a lover, his male lover, and he was sitting astride him, riding him slowly.

That knowledge triggered a rush of awareness as all her other senses snapped into focus. She could see them, she could hear-- God, she could even smell them in the huge, gulping lung-fulls of air she took as she struggled to breathe. They had to have been at it for a long time, because the air was thick with the scent of sex. And how could she not have noticed that? How could she not have heard the sighs and moans that were now so loud that they were battering her eardrums?

It was only when her shoulders hit the wall that Sara realized she'd been backing away. For long, long minutes she leant against it, shaking as feelings of fear, embarrassment, arousal and shame crashed over her like a wave until she was drowning under the weight of them. She had to get out. Under no circumstances could she afford to have Grissom or his lover catch her there. But her legs refused to co-operate, and she was trapped in the nightmare of watching Grissom having sex with someone else.

For a moment, Sara closed her eyes trying to block it out, to make it not happen. But she could still smell them and *hear* them, and God that was so much worse. All those noises from the bed creaking and sheets rustling and the endless slap of skin on skin as their bodies moved against each other. And above it all, a voice that sounded rough and needy, and which instinctively she knew was Grissom's cried out in obvious pleasure.

"Oh yeah, you like that, don't you?" his lover asked him, playful and sensual all at once.

But even without that, Sara would have known who was with him. Her eyes opened, and she *knew* from the way those dark hands held Grissom as though he were the most important thing in the world. Suddenly so much made sense. From the way Warrick always seemed just that little bit possessive of Grissom, to how Grissom let him get away with the most outrageous things, and why, no matter how hard she tried, she could never get close to him.

Warrick was already there; that left no space for anyone else.

Despite all that, Sara found she couldn't tear her eyes away. Never in a million years would she have imagined Grissom as the one being taken or that he would love it or beg for it. But he was; his groans got louder and louder, and she watched him suddenly curl over and press his face into Warrick's chest while he shivered on top of him.

Then, even that was gone as Warrick rolled them to one side, one hand gently cupping Grissom's nape. "It's okay. I've got you, I've always got you," Warrick whispered.

He put Grissom on his back underneath him, and all Sara could see of Grissom then were his legs, wrapped round Warrick's waist, with his feet perched on smooth, hard buttocks that were clenching and flexing as Warrick thrust into him again, and again, and again.

They were both close now, she could tell. Grissom's moans poured out with devastating casualness, as though she weren't even there, as though she couldn't see his toes curling or the way his fingers clutched desperately at Warrick's shoulders. The hopes she'd carried for so long just drained away, leaving her feeling empty and alone.

She didn't want to be there when Grissom came. That would be just too much to handle. So, she drew back from the bedroom, made her way to the front door, then she walked out into the sunshine, quietly closing that door behind her.

Inside, she was screaming.

Once she made it to her car, she managed to drive for a few blocks before she had to pull over. Then, for several minutes, all the she could do was hang outside her door heaving out her pain and frustration in a rush of bile. When, finally, it stopped, she sat back and closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths.

Grissom and Warrick. Together.

On some unconscious level, she'd always known Grissom was seeing someone. She'd watched him pull away from her over the years. She just hadn't wanted to accept that he was lost to her.

Sara brought her hand to her mouth, and then she bit down hard, screaming in pure agony. And when the pain slowly faded into nothing but a dull ache, she realized that her hands had stopped shaking.

The End


End file.
